Destinesia
by chrissie0707
Summary: Missing Scene/Tag for 14X03 "The Scar." This isn't something Sam can let his brother push down and grin through and suffer in secrets and silences and bottomless glasses of whiskey. Dean swears he's not hiding anything, swears he doesn't remember anything between "yes" and "Sammy, it's me," but Sam's not buying it.


_Since my previous tag turned out be nothing more than wishful thinking, here's something a little more canon for 14X03._

* * *

 **Destinesia**

 _When you get to where you were going,_

 _You forget why you were going there in the first place._

Dean jolts awake, comes off the bench so suddenly that Sam startles and jerks the steering wheel left and right. The Impala swerves violently, tossing his brother against the door.

Sam holds the wheel steady with both hands, eyes darting to Dean and back to the road. "Bad dream?"

His brother clears his throat, braces his arm on the door as he straightens. "No." He doesn't look at Sam, keeps his gaze pointed at the inky black night stretching beyond the windshield.

It had taken several hours and hundreds of miles for exhaustion to take Dean down, and he can't have been asleep more than ten minutes. He'd clearly been wary of falling asleep, maybe of the loss of control, or maybe because he was afraid he wouldn't be _him_ when he woke.

All valid concerns, and Sam really thinks his brother would benefit from talking about them. He cocks his head, clenches his jaw. "You all right?"

"Peachy."

Dean's been a one-word answer machine since they left Mom and Bobby back in Duluth nearly eight hours ago. It's not necessarily out of character, but these are not normal circumstances, and Sam needs more.

He spent the past few weeks not knowing if he'd ever see his brother again, or if Dean was even _alive_. If Michael had decided it wasn't worth the hassle and burned him out, claiming his brother's hollow vessel as his own. He'd had to hope for the best while steeling himself for the worst, and he'd had to be strong for Mom and Bobby and Cas and Jack and _everyone,_ all the while feeling like there was a vital piece of himself missing. Like an arm or a leg, or something less tangible but no less important.

The paralyzing fear that seized his heart when those doors opened to reveal his brother's silhouette, and not knowing what they might have to do to subdue the archangel and how it would affect Dean, the relief at hearing "Sammy, it's me" – he _needs_ to talk about it, needs to have that entire awful month validated and swiftly purged from his system.

And, more importantly, _Dean_ needs to talk about this. This isn't something Sam can let his brother push down and grin through and suffer in secrets and silences and bottomless glasses of whiskey. Dean swears he's not hiding anything, swears he doesn't remember anything between "yes" and "Sammy, it's me," but Sam's not buying it.

 _I don't remember a damn thing_ is a line he's heard from his brother before.

Beside him, Dean grimaces and rolls his head on his shoulders, rubs at the back of his neck.

Sam winces in sympathy. He knows a little something about possession, knows that the soreness Dean's trying to work out of his muscles, the ache in his joints, isn't from falling asleep in the car. He'd been pretty weak back in the church, had needed a long moment to catch his breath, and then to walk a few slow, arthritic laps around the large room to work out the kinks and refill all of the space inside that Michael had occupied. And then he'd immediately started with the _I'm fine's_.

Without the tie, wool jacket, and severe part in his hair, he's more _Dean_ , but he still doesn't look comfortable, and even in the darkness Sam can spot a concerning haunted look in his brother's eyes.

Dean shifts on the bench seat, and a grunt slips through his considerable defenses.

"You, uh, need any more water?" Sam catches himself before asking his brother – for roughly the three hundredth time – if he's okay. "Wanna stop and get some food?" Dean hasn't yet been tempted by such offers, but they're still a few hours out from the bunker.

"Sam, quit it. I'm fine." Dean's squinted gaze finally slides sideways. "Unlike your face."

Sam rolls his eyes, takes a hand from the wheel to scuff the backs of his fingers against the beard growth along his jaw. "I kind of like it."

"Well, I don't. It gives me the creeps."

Sam shakes his head. His brother's all about distractions and avoidance tactics, and he's pulling out all the stops. At least he's moved past the one-word answers.

* * *

 _It wasn't a blink_.

It's a dam bursting when he finally talks, an awful torrent washing over Sam as his brother brings every terrible, brutal thought he had feared for Dean into stark reality.

He just stares, barely breathing. _God, Dean_.

He was wrong. He doesn't want to know this, doesn't want Dean to have to say these things. Doesn't want Dean to have these things to say.

 _I don't remember most of what Michael did, with me. Because I was underwater. Drowning. And that I remember._

All said without looking at him, eyes wide and throat working. Feeling it, reliving it.

Sam doesn't remember anything like that, even with Lucifer. But Michael is stronger than Lucifer had been, and that's why the devil is dead while Michael walked away with a powerful new vessel.

 _I thought I could make it out, but I couldn't._

 _I wasn't strong enough._

Kaia struck a chord, punched a hole straight through to his brother's worst fears with just a few softly spoken words. That's why Dean's talking now. But he's wrong. He _is_ strong enough, because he's out here fighting, when he could very easily have locked himself in his room and curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped around his head. Michael didn't just leave Dean with a literal scar, but more unseen wounds festering beneath the surface.

 _And now he's gone. He's out there, putting an army of monsters together. And he's hurting people, and it's all on me, man. I said yes._

Sam's finally been freed from the mental and emotional prison – _cage_ – Lucifer has kept him in for all these years. Dean _did_ that. He rescued him. Saved him. That's why he said "yes" to the son of a bitch. His brother might have been overwhelmed and desperate, but he wasn't stupid.

 _It's my fault._

It's hard to keep up with Dean when he's running. Sam hasn't slept more than a couple of hours the past few days – or much at all in the past few weeks – and he's just had his face and head punched pretty severely. He was already starting to nod off when his brother started talking, and he's too slow with his response. "Dean…"

That moment's hesitation costs him. Dean just sniffs and shakes his head, refusing his brother's support and reassurance before he even has a chance to offer it.

And Sam's not sure he'll get another opportunity.


End file.
